


Reflection

by extension_cord



Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Angst, Dark Humor, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Violence, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Plug and Play Sex, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-29
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-12-21 18:25:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,838
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/903430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extension_cord/pseuds/extension_cord
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>G1 Cartoon/AUish: Sideswipe has given himself a temporary yellow paintjob. Sunstreaker approves, but approval from Sunstreaker doesn't always feel good. PWP weirdness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reflection

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for a friend who wanted some Sunstreaker/Sideswipe action! Late-night AIM conversations always seem to spawn the strangest prompts. I'd hoped to make this a (mostly) lighthearted, dark humor sort of story, but it got kind of depressing so I went with it. 
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> Disclaimer — nothing recognizable belongs to me.

* * *

"Okay, so the color doesn't _quite_ match. That's okay. It'll do."

"It'll — _what?_ It'll _do?_ I still don't know what you're going on about."

"Sure you do."

 "Well, this is hardly necessary."

" _Sure_ it is."

"Go suck on a tailpipe."

"Only yours, Sideswipe." And thus it began. Sunstreaker paced, grinning wolfishly as his twin completed the finishing touches of his temporary paintjob. The red, black, and white armor had slowly disappeared, yielding to a rather garish yellow — yes, it _didn't quite_ match Sunstreaker's golden sheen, but oh well — and now, seated before him, covering the very last patches of black on his right hand, was the spitting image of Sunstreaker himself.

Almost, anyway. Sideswipe wasn't _nearly_ handsome enough.

"You're sick, you know that?"

Sunstreaker leered. "No, I was unaware. Thanks for enlightening me. How long until it's dry?"

"Dunno," Sideswipe said, and he examined his now-yellow digits with a poorly-disguised look of disgust. "I mean, it'll be tacky for _hours_ , but —"

"Bad choice of words," Sunstreaker murmured. "Nice dig at my color. Real nice."

And _there_ was that standard look of feigned innocence that Sideswipe had a habit of playing, all the Primus-damned time. "It wasn't a _dig_. I'm just _saying_. This crud takes a long time to dry." A pointed finger, a knowing smirk. "And we all know how patient _you_ are!"

Sunstreaker scowled. There was no lie to be seen, and he knew it. Still, this was all Sideswipe's fault ( _what wasn't?_ ) and if his usually-red twin hadn't ever brought the topic up, then this probably wouldn't be happening in the _first_ place. _"You'd frag your own reflection, if you could_ , _"_ Sideswipe had declared one evening during an uneventful patrol lap around the perimeter of the _Ark_ , " _and don't you even try to deny it."  
_

And so here they were, and Sideswipe was yellow and Sunstreaker was circling him, optics taking in all those angles and the way the light hit that new paintjob, and _why_ hadn't they thought of this sooner?

"It's already making me itch," Sideswipe groaned, and he tapped at the plating on his thigh. "Still kinda wet. When we're done, I'm taking a solvent shower _ASAP_ and _you_ are going to help."

"Fair enough." Sunstreaker ceased his pacing, and he was glad they were in the privacy of their quarters, sealed away from the prying optics and gossiping vocalizers that ran so rampant onboard the _Ark._ There were plenty of stories, of course, and nothing Sunstreaker could say or do would dissuade the rumors surrounding his preferences — his _glitches_ — his oft-amoral tendencies. If anyone saw this, it would be yet another nail in the coffin to his reputation — not that it would make much of a difference, really.

Finally, Sunstreaker said, "You know, I don't care about paint transfer."

" _That's_ a first. Usually you won't even let me touch —"

"Shut up and stand up."

At the command, Sideswipe snapped to attention, springing to his feet and kicking aside the utility crate on which he'd been seated. "How're you going to play this, Sunstreaker? Because if _this_ is how —"

A step closer. "Don't you worry your pretty little skidplate about it."

"If you hurt me again, I swear to _Primus_ —"

"Then you'd better start swearing, Sideswipe."

And this was how it usually went. Sunstreaker knew how demanding he was, and he knew how violent he could become during an interface — and he also knew that Sideswipe, his brother and spark-twin, was one of the few who could _handle_ it and _understand_ it, even if he _did_ complain all along the way.

"Sunstreaker…" The designation was grated out in a warning — a warning for _what_ , exactly, Sunstreaker didn't care. Ratchet had fixed them up a countless number of times before, and he could fix them up again, all the while _tssking_ and _tutting_ about safe interface protocol and all that sort of _boring_ scrap. Sideswipe frowned, then finally murmured, "Be careful."

"Yeah, yeah." But Sunstreaker was beyond the point of really giving a damn. He flared his electromagnetic field in one burst of searing energy, then descended upon his brother — _himself_ — his dentae bared in a feral grin. A balled fist collided with Sideswipe's jaw and they hit the floor, armor rattling and clanging, curses falling from their lips. Sunstreaker clawed and kicked at his mirror image, digits raking furrows through the freshly-applied paint; he felt Sideswipe's identical energy field scrape against his own, and it was charged with _love_ and _hate_ and an incomprehensible amalgamation of emotions disregarded and unspoken.

Another blow, this time cuffing Sideswipe's helm — and Sunstreaker _felt_ it echo through his own neural system, a reverberation that kicked at his sensory receptors and _it hurt so good_. His twin didn't lash out in return, simply providing a strong resistance and _that was satisfactory enough_. Sunstreaker smashed Sideswipe against the floor — the pain arced through his own shoulders — a knee slammed down between parted thighs — electromagnetic fields clashed and ground against one another, invisible but all-consuming. Their vents heaved and whined, fans working themselves into overdrive, and _finally_ Sunstreaker leaned forward, crushing their mouths into a savage, fervent kiss.

Hands began to wander: fingers dug through still-tacky paint, traveling over hot plating and sensitive transformation seams. Sunstreaker felt his twin buck beneath him, pelvic plating rasping against his own, their shared spark pulsing fiercely under layers of protective armor. The kiss deepened — Sideswipe moaned — and Sunstreaker knew that the sound was the product of both pleasure and pain and it was _perfect_.

Sunstreaker pulled away and sat back on his heels. He could taste the tang of energon in his mouth, and a quick glance at Sideswipe confirmed that at some point he'd burst his twin's lower lip component. Sideswipe, it seemed, didn't notice, and he busied himself with opening his interface ports. One by one, they slid aside: one in his pelvic housing, at the junction of his thighs — another in his abdominal armor — a third, just below his spark chamber. Simultaneously, secondary panels unlatched, revealing neatly-coiled cabling and wires.

"This is — this is going both ways," Sideswipe gasped, digit pointed at his twin's chest. "We're doing a two-way connection and — _don't you even argue_ , _Sunstreaker!_ "

Sunstreaker scowled, but wordlessly he relented. If his brother wanted a two-way interface, then a two-way interface he would _get_. His own paneling sliding away, Sunstreaker moved quickly, unspooling his interface cabling and roughly plugging it into Sideswipe — one port, then the next, then the last. The connection began to surge as his own energy poured into his twin — but this wasn't finished, not yet, and with trembling fingers, Sunstreaker began to unwind Sideswipe's cables and hook them into himself: a plug into the socket between his thighs, another into the front of his pelvic housing, and a third just above his spark chamber.

Protective firewalls fell away, and an electric current ripped through their bodies, igniting every circuit, every wire, every _piston and gear and relay and —_

Thoughts melded, becoming one — memories met and merged — emotions turned tangible —

_I hate you —_

_You hate who?_

_Me._

_And me?_

_You, myself, everyone around us —_

_Why?_

_Because I can, and because I do._

Sunstreaker was vaguely aware of the body writhing beneath him: Sideswipe's optics had gone offline, his mouth was agape, fans shuddering, engine roaring, twitching fingers digging dents into Sunstreaker's back. The connection flowed between them like liquid, electric fire — there was a moan, perhaps it was Sunstreaker, or maybe it was Sideswipe, or it could have been them both, moaning as one —

_Why do you do this?_

_Do what?_

_This. To me, to yourself._

_Because you are me, and I am you, and I feel nothing but contempt._

_You need to stop._

_No._

The charge built into a crescendo, and Sunstreaker watched as warnings pinged and his vision fizzled into harsh static. He reset his optics twice, refusing to be denied the sight of Sideswipe — of _himself_ — twisting in agony and ecstasy, with that glowing trickle of energon bleeding from his mouth, and the gouges in yellow armor revealing the crimson hidden beneath. Sunstreaker rolled his hips, focused on channeling his energy through their shared connection, claimed Sideswipe's parted lips, biting, pulling, tearing —

_Promise me you'll stop._

_Why?_

_It's unhealthy. You're sick._

_Mind your own business._

_That's not possible, and you know it._

_I can't stop._

_But —_

_This is me._

_Sunstreaker —_

_No._

His engine howling and fans screaming, Sunstreaker flared his electromagnetic field one final time, slamming it into his twin, the waves of energy charged with _self-loathing hatred anger hate me hate you love you hate me_ —

A strangled cry — Sideswipe threw his head back, helm rattling against the hard floor — his legs shot up, wrapping around Sunstreaker's waist, tightening, shivering, convulsing, digits clawing at paint and metal — and the charge burst within them, and Sunstreaker saw through Sideswipe's optics, and Sideswipe saw through Sunstreaker's, and the world around them was white and hot and thick and then it faded to nothing.

Time passed.

Metal plating ticked and pinged as it cooled; fans slowed to their normal, murmuring whirrs. Sunstreaker groaned as his vision returned. First there were the grays, and then, gradually, colors crept in: the orange of the room, the yellow and red of his brother, beneath him. At last, his motor functions were restored, and Sunstreaker eased himself backward, unplugging interface cabling as he went, coiling wires back into their proper places, snapping port covers shut.

Sideswipe was still offline. Sunstreaker took the opportunity to simply _look_ at his brother: the scraped yellow paint that yielded to his customary red — the drying energon that had smeared on his lips and chin — the dark optics and sighing vents. Slowly, Sunstreaker pulled himself to his feet, mouth set in a thin frown; as always, after every interface, he would leave. He had no wish to be there when his brother came back online, and he _knew_ it bothered Sideswipe, but Sunstreaker couldn't find it in himself to care.

No, Sunstreaker would be gone, and he would hate himself and hate what he put his brother through, and most of all, he would hate — absolutely _hate_ — that Sideswipe would still accept him after everything — still accept him for the glitched-out, self-loathing piece of scrap that he was.

He turned away from his twin, with every intention of leaving — only to hear Sideswipe stir from his place on the floor. "Where — where d'you think you're going?"

"Not here."

Behind Sunstreaker, there was a groan of metal as Sideswipe climbed to his feet. "Oh no you don't."

"But —"

"No arguing." Sunstreaker felt his twin take a step closer, and then hands were on his waist, their grip firm yet gentle. "This paintjob — and I hate to tell you this, you won't like to hear it — it's pretty ugly."

"Thanks, Sideswipe."

"Let's just say — and this is the truth — it looks better on you than on me."

"Well _of course_ it does."

"You owe me a solvent shower."

 _Right_ , thought Sunstreaker, _there is that_.

* * *

_fin._

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
